La Danseuse
by E. M. Pink
Summary: Harry is cut adrift after a disastrous breakup with Ginny and two years of frustrating wandering. When he meets Gabrielle Delacour, someone running from responsibility just as hard as he is, he is deeply intrigued, and cannot help hanging around...
1. Chapter 1

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A/N: As always, the Harry Potter universe **does not belong to me**. I am merely playing around with the poor, helpless characters as I see fit, and, as you all should know by now, am making no money from this at all._

_For those who know and follow my other fics, this may seem a bit of a departure from my usual. In a way, it is - it's a much older, much less trivial little fic than the others in some ways, and therefore isn't for anyone who doesn't like to read references to graphic sex. It'll probably have nothing more than a couple references to slash, but will definitely feature lots of adults doing naughty things that have stuff to do with the plot. And there are definite HBP spoilers that will be cropping up from time to time, so...  
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_Now, background: It is seven years after the War that started in OOTP and intensified in HBP, and Harry isn't living in happily ever after, as he'd thought he knew it. Things have fragmented for him - his relationship with Ginny, his dynamic with most of the Weasleys, and his career prospects. Enter the ever-so-secret Organisation, which eagerly harnesses Harry's festering desire for revenge, and suddenly he is nudged side-first into a situation he'd never imagined he would be facing - a relationship with someone he'd never dreamed he would be with. Someone who is just as damaged and needy and utterly confused as he is..._**La Danseuse**.

_The Dancer._

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**Rendezvous au Théâtre – 1**

Harry could hardly believe his eyes.

There, in the centre of what was undoubtedly a very close knit group of dancers coming out of the backstage entrance, was Fleur – or someone who looked remarkably like her.

He did not let his shocked body still – he had too much training for that – but kept moving casually, glancing at the items on auction as the twittering group of five messily dressed girls, their hair still in ponderously tight buns, gracefully came his way. 'Fleur' smiled shyly – _who would have thought it_ – at something one of her friends said, shaking her silvery-blonde bun wildly. Too wildly – Harry had spent seven years amusedly watching Fleur Weasley's graceful, flirtatious movements at Weasley gatherings, and she'd never shaken her head like _that_, or smiled so shyly, even at Bill –

The dancers came dangerously close by, stopping to snatch away a far too meagre helping of expensive treats that had been laid out in the very middle of the anteroom, giggling as they went. Harry paid them no attention, even when some of them lingered, eyeing him provocatively. He was waiting for Fleur's look-alike – for that was surely all the mystery girl could be – to spot him –

There.

_Wait a minute – I _know_ her_ –

"'Arry?" Tired blue eyes brightened slightly, the remaining dancers and people parting easily to let her by. Harry smiled uncertainly, eyes darting here and there – it wasn't exactly in the plan to get noticed here, but he supposed it would have to do.

Besides, this was Fleur's _sister_ –

"Gabrielle," he took the pale, outstretched hand, wondering whether he would have to kiss it, or even if he _should_ – but too late, she was energetically pressing his hand and pulling him close for a dainty half-hug.

« I cannot _believe_ it – of all the people to meet, at my first real performance… » she gushed happily, in French, tugging him gently towards her curious friends. "Quelle _surprise,_ mon Dieu…you will explain _properly_ later, eh?" she added in an undertone, her English coming smoother than Fleur's ever had. Harry nodded easily, thanking Merlin for the fact that he'd taken the time out to learn the language before he embarked on his mission – those three days of headaches had proved themselves well worth the hassle of mixing up French, Spanish (the learning charm had a tendency to bring forth memories of other languages you used it for) and English words for the weekend. Translation charms were all very well for delegates and fat old warlocks at stuffy conventions, but they paled in comparison to actually being passably fluent in the language of the target country while on a sensitive mission.

"Pardon – excusez-moi, monsieur – " Gabrielle slipped between two middle-aged men that turned rather pink when she pressed against them inadvertently. Harry kept back a smile – Veela charms were known to work on Muggles, though a little less effectively, and, besides, Gabrielle Delacour was, as far as he could ascertain, rather good-looking _without_ the charms. He'd last seen her at William Jr.'s christening three – or was it four? – years ago, and she'd definitely blossomed since then. She'd been merely pretty then, a shorter, shyer shadow of her sister, but _now_ –

«Watch where you are _going_, sir,» a portly woman snapped at him as he knocked her bag from her hand, using a ruder word than _sir_. Harry apologised hastily, keeping Gabrielle's blonde head and toned upper half in sight. He quickly regained his position by her side, bumping into her once or twice as the crowd in the anteroom thickened as people poured from the packed balconies of the concert hall.

Gabrielle's perfume was odd – lacking, truth be told – and she smelled interestingly of sweat and some sharp, tangy scent he could not identify. He took it in as they forced their way back over to her friends, who had been joined by laughing male dancers – at least, he thought they were – sipping champagne and, as they got into hearing range, telling raucous jokes. Gabrielle pressed a hand here and there, now easily securing passage for them both as she tugged impatiently at her pale bun.

«Gabby – oh, there you are – »

«Finally deign to join us mortals, do you, Princelle – »

«Who's your friend, Gabby?»

"Zis," Gabrielle piped up, gesturing gracefully up at Harry, "is my old friend 'Arry, from England. 'Arry," her now rather messy head twisted back up at him charmingly, "_zese_ are ze stalwarts of ze Ballet Atlantique – my dance company. Say hello to Richard, Amelie, and all ze rest – "

"All ze _rest_, Gabby – mon amie, mon chere, you cannot 'ave forgotten _moi_," a pale, vaguely pretty girl spoke up, theatrically waving about an hors d'oeuvre.

"Or _moi_ – " at least three other male dancers heartily added.

«Nonsense, you cannot expect me to remember _all_ your names at this moment, you silly folk, » Gabrielle retorted in rapid French.

«Are you bringing him to the party?» the pretty girl asked, smiling predatorily at Harry.

"'Arry?" Gabrielle turned on him, eyes beseeching. "We 'ave a party – a small thing, just for minor danseurs, if you'd like to…"

«I would be delighted,» Harry replied slowly, taking pains to make it look like he was a beginner. All the girls laughed merrily at him, their male counterparts rolling their eyes – except for one, who was also quite clearly giving him the eye. Gabrielle let loose a brilliant smile reminiscent of Fleur, and within minutes, they were all heading down the stairs and out into the cool evening air.

Harry sighed to himself. He'd barely even gotten to take so much as a _look_ round the anteroom or the foyer below, surrounded as he was by flirting, laughing dancers. But, catching a grateful half-smile from Gabrielle as he sneakily cast a mild Warming Charm on her shivering shoulders, he felt that the all-important mission could wait a few more hours.

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Two hours and fifteen bottles of champagne later, Harry was escorting a giggly Gabrielle and one of her equally giggly girlfriends back to their respective flats, and smiling for the first time in a long week. She and her dancer friends had made some effort to include him in their conversation, and bombarded him with questions about England. He'd easily caught the hinted references to magical England from 'Gabby', and had answered them as best as he could, noting, with some interest, that one of the male dancers also had that intense interest in his words. He'd filed that away for reference, wondering if Gabrielle knew the somewhat handsome man – _Paul_, _I think_ - was a wizard, just like her. 

As Gabrielle shouted at the disgruntled cab driver to stop – "Arretez! Ici, _ici_ – " – her friend gave him a lascvicious grin, sliding her hand unabashedly into his lap. Harry gave her a wry, somewhat uncomfortable smile, moving her hand out of that region. He still wasn't used to the way all women seemed to react to him – perhaps the damned hair? – but he certainly didn't want to leave Gabrielle to make the journey back on her own.

"À Lundi, Sophie! À Lundi!" Gabrielle slurred out after the now-pouting Sophie, who was staggering up to a half-asleep doorman at a rather boring-looking old apartment block. She slumped heavily against him as the driver started the cab, just as she managed to get the door closed. "'Arry…" she sighed, eyes lidded with far too much champagne, "…I don't theenk I can walk up ze stairs – _hic_ – on my own – "

"That's all right," Harry murmured, trying to quell his reaction to her closeness, and telling his mind to stop the stream of illicit thoughts that waltzed through his slightly fuzzy head. "I'll walk you up, how's that?"

"Ah…?" Gabrielle was staring at the open neck of his dress shirt, mouth slightly open in a frighteningly endearing manner.

Harry shook his head, trying not to touch anything he wasn't supposed to as he rearranged her slumped upper half against him in a more appropriate position. After all, she'd be hurt if he propped her back against the tatty leather of the backseat, as if he couldn't stand her touching him –

Which, Harry thought, guiltily, was very much _not_ the case. She had very soft skin on her shoulder, and –

"Finalement…trente-neuf, Rue Fontaine – madame ? _Madame_…?" Gabrielle started to life at the increasingly loud exclamations of the taxi driver, producing her impossibly tiny little clutch and digging around in it for change, kicking Harry in a very unladylike manner when he offered to pay for the ride.

"No, 'Arry – it is your first trip to Paris, no? I treat you – you are merely escor-ting me 'ome, n'est pas?" Harry tried not to snort as more of her hand disappeared into the clutch than was possible – she'd obviously not entirely given up magic, if _that_ was any indication – and handed the sullen driver some crumpled notes and coins. Remembering his manners (and sense, to a certain degree), Harry hastily exited the cab, walking round to Gabrielle's door so he could open it for her and help her out of the car.

It proved to be a very good thing that he did so, as, on lurching out of the cab, Gabrielle proceeded to trip over her low heels and fall, giggling, into a rather large puddle on the pavement. Harry apologised profusely for a moment, until he realised that she was laughing, and not crying.

_She's got a nice laugh, too_, Harry found himself thinking dazedly as he helped her up, a smile stretching at his lips. _Only fitting, seeing as she's got such nice_ –

Harry's eyes widened – no, no, and _no_, he was not having _those_ thoughts about Gabrielle. _She's six years younger than you, for Merlin's sake – get a _grip_, Potter_ –

"Mon Dieu – if zat is 'ow I exit ze cab, who knows 'ow I shall get upstairs…" he heard her mutter unsteadily, as he tried to ask the cab to wait for him in bad French, ignoring the calculating look the impatient driver was giving him and the – he had to admit it – exquisitely rumpled-looking Gabrielle.

«I will be back in _minutes_, I tell you», Harry repeated for the fifth time, guiding a foolishly grinning Gabrielle through the front door of the complex, after she finally managed to find the key.

"Pas de problème, monsieur, pas de problème – " the driver insisted again, giving Gabrielle another envious once-over. Harry sighed, giving up as he somehow managed to close the door with one arm and balance Gabrielle on the other. Not three steps forward into the musty hall, he heard the noise of the damned cab starting, and sighed again as they approached the stairs beside the lift – _hors service_, that was 'out of order' – and began to climb.

"Is everything all right?" came the breathy, unsteady query from the soft bundle of drunken French girl from just below his head on the right.

"I'll have to find a new cab, that's all," Harry forced himself to reply. That was what he would _do_ – get Gabrielle into her flat, safe and sound, get her phone number – he didn't suppose she was hooked up to the Floo network here – say goodbye, call another bloody cab and get back to his boring little hotel room and sleep. And perhaps get woken up by that horribly cheerful Alain for an equally boring 'emergency' in his rather boring, empty bed –

_Stop that now_, Harry warned himself again, keeping an eye out for no 152 – at least he _thought_ that was the room number she'd said – as he gently guided Gabrielle down a long corridor with several – there –

"Here we are - number 152…?"

"Thank you _so_ much – I do not theenk I could have made it on my own," Gabrielle sighed, trying to force the already abused key into her lock. Harry gently relieved her of it with a wry grin, turning the key in the lock with a soft click and opening the door so she could stagger in. He followed her inside slowly, swallowing convulsively as he watched her start to tear off her soiled blouse. "Is zere anything wrong?" The look in her eyes was undoubtedly one of heady, drunken challenge.

A challenge he was _not_ going to take up – Merlin knew he'd given in to enough of these situations after Ginny to learn that they all ended in tears –

"Gabrielle – " Harry started to say, willing his eyes _not_ to travel downwards –

"Close zat door, Harry," she said negligently, stumbling across to the tiny kitchenette. "I don't want to shock any of ze other tenants – zey are _so_ conservative – " Harry shut the door, eyes involuntarily caressing her largely smooth, toned back – her bra was so lacy from the back, it'd surely be indecent if she –

Turned round. Harry swallowed again as Gabrielle tugged her hair out of the loosened bun, knocking back some of the champagne she'd just gotten out of the small fridge. God, he couldn't _help_ looking – at that soft, pale, skin –

"Ze telephone is in ze bedroom," Gabrielle said unsteadily, licking her lips, gesturing to a door on the other side of the tiny sitting room. "You want to call a cab, don't you?"

"Yeah," Harry said, feeling his cheeks redden as she leaned against one of the counters in an unconsciously provocative position, toeing off her low pumps. "I'll just – " she nodded, waving the bottle at him, her slightly pink flesh wobbling inside that thing that was _definitely_ too sheer to be a bra –

_The phone, Potter!_

Harry darted into the bedroom, averting his eyes from the almost equally racy, freshly smelling underwear in a wicker basket by the door, instead heading for the rumpled, all-too-inviting bed, from where something that sounded like a distressed mobile phone was beeping frantically. He cursed, digging it out of the blankets, trying not to breathe in the inviting smell of perfume and female sweat as he extracted the phone, which – _no no NO_ – turned off, after displaying an ominous sort of "pas de batterie" motif for a few seconds.

"_Fuck_ – this is just – Gabrielle," Harry stormed out of the tempting bedroom and away from that god-awful (_beautiful, inviting_) bed, brandishing the phone. "It's not – "

"Oh, _merde_," she sighed, flopping onto her tiny cloth couch, setting down the bottle of champagne, "Oh _Harry_ - je suis très, _très_ désolée, I always forget to charge eet – " She elbowed her long, slightly sweaty hair out of the way as she reached for her skirt.

"It's all right," Harry said, a little desperately, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight unfolding before him, "I can just charge it for a bit, or something – " he gulped as she hiked up the respectable swathe of something he now realised was tweed, almost high enough that he could see her _knickers_, and jabbed fingers into the top of one of her almost opaque blue tights, quite clearly rolling it _down_ – "Gab – wait – what are you – "

"Taking zese off," she offered flippantly, pausing halfway down her right leg to take a swig. "Ze charger should be somewhere in my room – on my bed – "

"I'm not going back in there," Harry insisted, trying and failing to make his tone light, not desperate, because he really _wasn't_ – "I'll drown in all the lingerie, there's so much of it out – " Gabrielle gave a little gasp (more of a hiccup), clapping her hand to her small forehead in what was probably supposed to be dismay, but, to Harry, looked more like a gratuitous display of bouncing – _delicious_ – cleavage.

"Fuck," she said, trying to stand up, the word seeming oddly out of place even with her burgundy, unmentionably lacy bra and rumpled skirt and tights. "I'm so _messy_ – must be disgusting – "

"It's all right," Harry said, voice hoarse as – dear Merlin – she headed unsteadily for him – no, not for him, for the _door_ to her _bedroom_, that had to be – "I'll just – "

"No, no, don't – " She tried to make something of a dash past his already half-turned body, but somehow ended up colliding with him.

And then, really, because a bloke could only take so much, Harry let his arms and body operate of their own free will, and he was very suddenly devouring her mouth, and having his devoured in return. It was tinged with alcohol and the smell of sweat and perfume, but bloody _hell_ was he rising to the occasion, because she was pressing those unspeakably warm breasts into him, and licking her lips as she took a break to draw breath –

Harry's memory began to blur, dissolve into achingly warm hands and lips and skin everywhere and clothes, too many clothes in the way –

His mind sharpened briefly as she helped his shaking fingers tug down her knickers – this wasn't – perhaps he shouldn't be – what was he _doing_ –

But Gabrielle was giggling, and pulling him down for another hungry kiss, and freeing the insistent erection down below.

Legs wound about each other of their own accord as Harry slipped fingers inside the soft, insistent heat between her legs and stroked –

_The way she moans – bloody hell_ –

And then they were almost naked, and all the skin rubbing against him and his hard, hard erection was driving him mad, so –

Harry could no longer think, only feel the satisfying thrusts into achingly tight warmth – _oh shit – she's too – Merlin –_

When she convulsed around him, he saw stars, and that was the end of that. Except that it wasn't – she held him to her, inside her, warm slickness pulsing slightly around his sensitised flesh, breath coming hard against his ear, languid hand stroking through his now-sweaty hair.

Harry closed his eyes as they slowly disentangled, hoping this wasn't the daftest thing he'd done all week. Looking at Gabrielle's small, tired-looking frame, he cursed himself for growing hard again – bloody chivalrous of him, getting her drunk and doing her on the floor of her flat when she was obviously –

"Don't just stand zere – come to bed…"

– ready to do it again. Arousal speared through him as her blue eyes drifted lustfully over him again as she bent briefly to pick up her discarded and now very rumpled clothing. Harry reddened self-consciously – he'd never been immune to looks like that from _any_ girl -

"_Now_, 'Arry," Gabrielle tossed his equally rumpled dress shirt at him, threading fingers through her slightly tangled hair as she made for the bedroom door.

And Harry, though guilty and fully aware that he needed to get home and sleep, didn't need telling twice.

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_A/N:Well well well. How was it for you? Do drop me a line - I love getting reviews.  
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	2. Chapter 2

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_A/N: Hey guys! I'm off hiatus now, and I had this ready, so I thought I'd just put it up right away, as I'm not done with Chapter 7 of AST yet. So settle down, sink into your computer chairs, and enjoy some smutty, not-too-angsty goodness._ _Warnings: The usual. If you're under 16, you definitely shouldn't be reading this._

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**Petit Dejeuner dans le Lit - 2**

As Harry opened his eyes and found they didn't ache ever so slightly with the alcohol from last night, he knew, he knew –

He rose up uncertainly, feeling bone-tired even if his dream-observer-self felt nothing in that vein. He was so tired of this, so tired of –

"Shut up and come to bed, Harry," Ginny said, rather desperately. Harry covered his unfeeling face with unfeeling hands. So it was this one – _again_.

_How didn't I see what she _really_ wanted? Why didn't I see?_

"Ginny – "

"Just come, Harry." Harry sighed as he watched the all-too-familiar emotions chase themselves across his too-open face as Ginny leaned close, licking her lips suggestively in what now knew had _definitely_ been desperation. As she set off through the misty walls of Godric's Hollow, his unwilling dream self following hesitantly, he tried to see if he could wake up, willing his body to snap _out_ of this everlasting series of –

Nope, nothing. So that meant he'd be treated to another rendition of the memory of the aftermath of his awkward first time with Ginny during the war, _again_.

Harry sighed in frustration. He'd have hit something if he'd only been _corporeal_ – that was the most tiring aspect of the whole thing. Some of the recurring dreams he was still cursed with always felt a lot like the viewing of things in a Pensieve, with him being removed from everything. Sometimes, he was thankful for that – there were worse memories, significantly worse ones that his brain had, to his relief, evidently decided he would never have to physically live through again.

All except one in particular, which had its benefits, Harry thought sourly, not bothering to drift after Ginny and his younger, confused lustful self. Sticking a fat sword into Voldemort had been the highlight of _that_ awful day, even if he'd seen at least ten or twenty friends die before, and even after the final deed.

That was one thing that separated himself from the rest of the world at times. Ron and Hermione forgot sometimes, and fretted about the last few Death Eaters, languishing in New Azkaban. Ginny had taken to regularly voicing the dissatisfaction and emptiness she'd felt once the whole ordeal was over, and so had many others. Harry had never understood them, never understood that – Voldemort had sucked almost every last bit of joy out of his teenage life up until his satisfyingly grisly death, and he'd felt well within his rights to cut the bastard into as many pieces as needed.

It was really why he was _here_ in Paris – finishing off the job, in a manner of speaking. Merlin knew there were other unknown Death Eaters still hiding and running about, but Harry had decided that he had a vested interest in making sure all the ones he knew personally were behind bars. At first, he'd convinced himself it was for his safety, for the safety, even, of his family and friends. His future children, perhaps.

Harry angrily swiped at his hair, forgetting that he couldn't. That idea had evaporated rather quickly, it had – he'd eventually had to come to terms with the fact that Ginny was not interested in having children any time soon, and possibly would not be for years, even, but that had still been okay, when she still smiled at him. As Harry lounged about the tattered, unspeakably ancient living room, hearing the faint noises of awkward passion from his nearby teenaged self and Ginny, he found himself wondering whether his unnervingly cold desire for revenge had been what had divided them.

He laughed sourly, soundlessly – how ironic _that_ would've been –

"Harry? _Harry?"_ He started slightly, colouring even now at the remembrance of hasty dressing, of physically painful embarrassment as he lost his erection in what was – "God – what the hell is – "

"Never mind how I'm dressed, Ron," evidently-embarrased-dream-Harry sputtered back, running shaky fingers through even messier hair. Harry felt a pang for himself, embarrassed and scared to death of whether Ron would guess, and so unprepared for the news that came next – "What is it?"

"It's the Delacours, Harry," a voice suddenly came from behind him, startling him. "They've found them at the camp at Albany – we have to go – " Harry broke into a cold sweat he wouldn't feel – this wasn't how this memory turned out, Hermione hadn't even been _there_ –

"They've found Gabrielle, Harry," Ron said, eyes settling oddly on him – where was the other Harry? Why wasn't – "They found her – she's in Albany, mad like the rest of them – "

"That's not right," Harry found himself muttering – this was all wrong, it _was_ - "There wasn't a camp at Albany – "

"Zat is where you were wrong, 'Arry," a low, familiar voice sounded from behind, "Zere _was_. You did not find it – you were too busy fucking _Ginny_ – " God, but this wasn't _happening_, Gabrielle couldn't be in this memory –

"You should be punished, Harry. You weren't thinking," said a new, sterner voice from his right –

_Dean_ –

"You're dead," Harry said shakily, panic clawing at him – he knew these weren't _real_, but he hated them – "You're dead, I saw it – I saw him kill you – "

"And whose fucking fault was that?"

_Sirius_ –

"Always off having _fun_, instead of paying attention to your _surroundings_, laddie – " _Mad-Eye, too_ – Harry felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rising up in him as the dead, the long dead clustered around him, moving ominously closer, hatred and contempt in their eyes. _Oh Merlin_ –

"Punish him!" Dumbledore's unnaturally cold, implacable tone came from everywhere –

Cold, dripping hands seized him from every angle, strength twisting at him as they separated, chanting their hatred at him, seeking to tear him apart, even as Gabrielle stood proudly by, blue eyes gleaming coldly –

_«Wake up, Harry!»_

Warmer hand seemed to pull him from the shaking horror that was his dream, panicky French flowing about him like an oddly soothing Calming Draught. Harry did not open his eyes at first, choosing to just let Gabrielle – the _real_ Gabrielle – stroke his messy hair and squeeze him against her until he couldn't breathe. He tried to steady his short, rasping breaths, focusing on irrelevant little details like how much like her bed she smelled, and how interestingly soft-firm her breasts were against his back, and how interesting it was that her arms supported him easily against her.

Harry tried to speak in the lull between her slightly jittery murmurings of nonsense, but could not. There was a lump in his throat – when was the last time he'd had someone willing to do this for him, anyway?

Warm, slightly chapped lips pressed hastily against his neck, and Gabrielle began to speak in English again.

"I am so sorry – I know you will not wish to speak of it, but I – I – " she faltered, easing away from him slightly. _No, don't do that, bring those back_ – "I 'ave rehearsal, zis morning."

Harry's face and heart fell simultaneously.

"For how long?" He just hoped he didn't sound like – like a horny, pervy twenty-four-year-old, pining for another go in the proverbial sack. Even if he _was_ a horny, pervy –

"A few 'ours, nothing too long," Gabrielle said, shifting behind him. "Will you see me afterwards? For lunch…?"

_C'est impossible! The horny twenty-four-year-old shall strike again!_ The memories dancing around the edges of Harry's memory seemed to still and retreat at his inwardly said, self-deprecating nonsense, and that was certainly much better than struggling back to his flat to have a go at that tempting bottle of mint liquor while wondering morosely why he never seemed to meet anyone or do anything to help take his mind off things. And although it was really implausible that Gabrielle could really be serious, eighteen – or was it nineteen? – year-old Gabrielle with that lovely figure and odd, misplaced athleticism.

_Not bad, Potter – a night and she's already hooked_, he told himself, sarcastically, behind the foolish grin he sprouted in her direction. _A week and she'll be chaining you to her bed_ –

Right, time to answer.

«But of course,» Harry said, in bad French. A sleepy, sad sort of giggle assured him that she was not joking, and was really pleased, even as that comfortable warmth returned to wind firmly about his back. He turned over, meaning to ask her when her dance rehearsal would end, but felt compelled to put his mouth to better use when his suspicion that she was naked under those slightly scratchy covers was confirmed.

_That_ turned into an impromptu round of hands going where he'd never dreamed of putting them – well, not literally, last night, and before Harry really registered what he was doing, he was grinding his sticky, leaking erection against Gabrielle's sinfully warm softness, and the morning started well after all, with an orgasm and a delicious sense of sensitive, tingling stickiness that only translated into more guilt-tinged satisfaction when Gabrielle suggested that they take a shower together, 'to save time'.

_That_ would have been more or less a repeat performance of their lustful activities so far if the both blessed and accursed phone had not begun to shrill distantly.

«Oh, sweet Merlin, I must be late – »

Gabrielle neatly extricated herself from Harry's slightly shaky grip, biting her lip in a move Harry felt travel all the way down to – "I am sorry we cannot finish – zis," she said, colouring a little shyly as she wrung out her hair. "but I am already late as it is – if I do not leave – "

"Ssh," Harry shook his head at her, pausing her in her speeded-up ablutions to kiss her gently on the neck, heatedly admiring the way the blush travelled down across her breasts and back, "I'll see you afterwards, won't I?" Gabrielle grinned at him through the intermittent shower spray, and pulled him into another kiss by way of reply.

"Eleven fifty at zis address," Gabrielle said, rinsing then disentangling herself once more to dart out of the bathroom – still naked, and a joy to watch – to fetch a small business card that she set upon the tiny, cluttered dresser nearby. "You can find my number on ze phone if you are confused, no?" Not waiting for a reply, she began to towel herself down ruthlessly, making sure to give her hair a seeing-too as well.

"Want me to dry that for you?" Harry said, eyes greedily taking in the sight of a pretty girl dressing up – a process that had always fascinated him, especially when coupled with such an impressive figure as the one before him. Gabrielle's eyes met his in the mirror as she started putting on some thick, sweet-smelling lotion. "Or if you'd rather not – "

"It's all right, 'Arry," she said simply, bending over briefly to struggle out a strange-looking apparatus. "I 'ave an 'airdryer – just as good as a wand. Sometimes better…" She left the bathroom abruptly, charging out into the living room in search of something. Probably clothes, when Harry allowed himself to grudgingly reflect on it – _she needn't bother covering that up around me, that's for certain_ – as he turned off the water and availed himself of the same towel. It was a bit damp, and smelled very, _very_ much like damp, clean French girl, which was fast becoming Harry's favourite French smell –

"You should let me 'ave a try at your 'air with ze dryer sometime, 'Arry," Gabrielle said, slipping back in, already partially dressed in some active-style bra and too-long, slightly grubby tracksuit bottoms. "Really – with ze right brush, and ze right tools, I could – "

"Make my hair lie down for about ten minutes," Harry interjected playfully, idly wrapping the towel round his waist and watching her plug in the dryer. It'd been ages since he'd had cause to actually even see one, let alone use one – they'd certainly advanced to the point of insanity, from the sleek shininess of the one she was currently and proficiently using in tandem with an odd-looking round-barrelled hairbrush. Gabrielle rolled her blue eyes at the comment and, in a surprising move, tossed her hair directly into his face – "Hey!"

"It is a small toilet, you must forgive me," she said insincerely, grinning at him in the mirror.

"Well maybe I should leave you to your toilet, then," Harry said, surprised to find he had an urge to pout. He quashed the impulse – by all that was good, he hadn't pouted for years, it would look so silly –

"Ah, non," Gabrielle said, wickedly serious, backing gracefully into his way, kicking the door shut. "I mean to keep you 'ere – it is only fair, as you woke me up zis morning…" she trailed off at the expression on Harry's face, reddening slightly. "Ah, je suis – I am so sorry – zat was terribly bad taste – "

"It's okay," Harry found himself wanting to insist, watching her try to keep an eye on him while blasting and brushing her hair with the rather loud and hot dryer. He didn't think anyone since Ginny had ever even tried to joke about the sodding things with him, inadvertently or not, and seeing as Gabrielle hadn't run screaming from _his_ screaming that morning, or carefully edged out of another meeting with him, it was clear that she didn't care very much. "Everyone I know still has them, I think." He paused for a moment after her answering nod, wanting to ask, but not knowing – "Do you still…?" Her face seemed to shut down, making him want to kick himself –

_For crying out _loud_, of all the things you ask her, Potter_ –

"No," Gabrielle said quietly, too quietly. An uncomfortable silence rested heavy on them, broken only by their breathing and the whining roar of the dryer. "I was wondering when you would ask, no?"

Harry felt the knot in his chest grow tighter – why hadn't he just kept his mouth –

"Don't," came the rough admonishment as he opened his mouth to apologise, to say something, anything – "Just don't."

"But – "

"Listen to me," Gabrielle said, just as roughly, seeking out his eyes with hers again in the fogged-up mirror. "I won't 'ave your pity, 'Arry, tu comprends? I," she said, fiercely setting down the now-silent hairdresser, "am content. I 'ave friends, work zat I _love_ to do – I am _fine_, 'ow I am." She took a stabilising breath, before going on, "If you 'ave come 'ere to convince me to return to ze wizarding world, I can already tell you zat my answer is no, and will always _be_ no. If – if you are not ready to accept zat…" she shrugged stiffly in the mirror, breathing a little fast as she seized a hair band and began to ruthlessly tame her hair into the small circle of black.

"I didn't come here to push you to do something you'll hate, Gabrielle," Harry replied softly. "That's not what I came here for."

"Zen what, 'Arry?" she half-snapped in return, now fishing out a few pots and tubes of muggle makeup.

"I'm here on leave, to debauch myself with the lovely French food and wine, not to imprison or convince someone of something really against her will," he replied, stepping closer to Gabrielle's slightly hunched form.

"And zat is your polite way of telling me your stay is just temporary, I suppose," she remarked again, but far less snappishly, as she shook her longish ponytail and examined it from as many angles as she could manage. "'Ow does it look?"

"Your hair, or you?" Gabrielle snorted. "Well fine, don't help me out, then. Your hair looks great, and so does the rest of you..."

"Ah, merde! I _am_ going to be late…" she dashed out of the bathroom with him lumbering in surprised pursuit. One minute she was swearing never to return to using magic, and the next she was fishing for compliments from him. It was really odd how flighty she was – and how much he sort of enjoyed it, the imbalanced nature of –

"Eleven fifty, 'Arry," Gabrielle whispered, coming out of what seemed like nowhere to crush herself to him. The short ensuing kiss left him rather short for breath, but not dazed enough not to throw on something decent and follow her out so he could make sure she was safe, especially in _this_ neighbourhood, where everything looked dingy and battered. They rushed down the stairs in tandem, Gabrielle almost seeming to sparkle as she entered the cab.

"Eleven fifty!" Harry half-roared after her, just so it'd make her laugh. And she did, over her shoulder, through the darkened windows of the car, she waved and sent a few involuntary giggles his way.

Going back to the flat without her ached, in a very insistent, particular manner. Harry closed the door behind him, wincing at his state of arousal – _still hard, can't believe it_ – as he returned to the bathroom to have a go with the hairdryer. It wouldn't hurt to try it on himself, really – he was at once whimsical and gagging for it –

The dryer took longer to use than his wand, as he'd expected. What he hadn't expected was the almost mad desire to point the thing at his cock, which had piped down after it probably realised he wasn't going to oblige it with a hard rub. He tried it – gulped – noted that somewhere in the back of his mind – _Gabrielle + me + dryer recipe for success_ – then turned it off, not minding that his hair was just a tiny bit damp at the roots.

And, what do you know – looking at himself in the mirror, it _did_ look a bit more tamed. Which was just as well, as Harry wanted, rather a bit more than usual, to look good for his meeting with Gabrielle. Checking the time on the clock in the tiny living room, he blushingly put on the discarded, rather wrinkled formal clothes from the evening before, trying not to remember how she'd taken off his boxers, as he'd feel like a dirty old man wanking _here_, within reach of that bed and that smell –

_Right. Apparation time_.

Harry closed his eyes and squeezed down, not even needing to do the wand movement – he was so used to –

_Fucking hell_ –

The temporary Floo connection, a tiny floating grate, was vibrating angrily just in front of the fizzling flat-screen television, emitting gurgles and squeaks Harry knew boded nothing but ill. He'd been right, then – Alain _had_ called during the night, and, by the looks of it, several times.

Twenty minutes later, Harry was stomping rather angrily into the largeish shower cubicle, feeling at once ashamed of himself and irritated as hell at the shouted insults he'd copped from his sort-of-superior. What was even more annoying was how Alain had relaxed considerably after finally being made to understand, by a highly embarrassed Harry, that he'd not been kidnapped, killed or lost – merely in the bed of some girl he'd inadvertently met after the show.

He'd asked for _details_, the dirty sod –

Harry tried to calm down, as the water was starting to grow unnaturally hot from the magical energy seeping off him. He'd had a horrible experience with a thoroughly Muggle shower once – it had burst and rained scalding hot water on him, flooding the bathroom after Harry had given in and cursed it, irrationally, with wandless magic. That, he wincingly remembered, had been a month or two after the first real break with Ginny. He'd been unstable. He certainly wasn't unstable now, just –

Horny. Again.

Harry gave in to the insidious voice of his impulses, reaching down to stroke at his wet, half-hard cock. As he stroked and gasped and leant against one of the shower walls, water pounding into his side, he only gave a fleeting thought to why the thought of Gabrielle's wet skin, earlier in the day, sent him into such paroxysms of arousal.

Then he was cleaning up and getting out of the shower, and it really wasn't as important as fussing over his choice of clothes – _black, blue, grey, white, and – oh, thank Merlin, red _– and wishing fervently that he'd not thought to take a second bloody shower.

A half-hour of research later, Harry was gasping at the time and grabbing at his jacket, running fingers through his irritatingly messy hair even as he Apparated to the street she'd mentioned. By the time he'd finally gained entrance to the studio, he'd forgotten entirely about his almost unnaturally heated wank and the feelings that had had lain beneath it, and was only moderately anxious to see Gabrielle again.


	3. Chapter 3

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_A/N: The usual disclaimer applies, obviously. If you're still reading this, and are not partial to non-explicit sex scenes, I've no idea what you're still doing here. Also, do bear with me if you happen to know what dancing with a French Modern Dance company is really like in France. _

_In which Harry gets to know Gabrielle, and some things come to a head._

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**Dejeuner au Café**

After a few minutes of wrangling with the shifty-eyed guard at the door to the dance studio, Harry finally found himself walking the halls of the cramped headquarters of the Ballet Atlantique. Luckily for him, a few curious dancers were lounging about in the corridors, evidently preparing to take their lunch break, and, with a certain amount of stammering and flushing at lewd comments whispered between the dancers about him in French, he soon found himself at the door to the studio Gabrielle was presumably practicing in this morning. It was ajar, and the sounds of healthy thumps and the slide-skitter of feet and the authoritarian shouts of someone could be heard just above the loud, vibrant and very Indian music.

After debating with himself for a few minutes as to whether to chance entering the sanctum, Harry was pre-empted by the appearance of Sophie from last night – Gabrielle's friend, looking sweaty, flushed and thoroughly awake.

"Parfait, parfait – Gabby's in need of a friendly face cette matin – Harry? Please come in – " And Sophie was dragging the stuttering Harry into the room, which was whirling with movement, air heavy with sweat and shouts and muttered curses. "In a minute, we will be done – Madame Gorgen pushes us vairy, vairy 'ard zis morning, you see, going into our break. See – over there – Gabrielle ees dance lead zis morning, pauvre petit – "

And indeed she was – nodding her head emphatically at the slim, forceful-looking woman waving her arms vigorously in front of her as the music was changed and dancers scuttled off to the sides of the huge room, evidently preparing to – right, she was running off to the side now, and the music was starting –

Harry absently began to tap his feet to the measured beat of the music, as the dancers moved across the room in what looked like easy concert. Gabrielle made her entrance later, prowling theatrically onto the stage and whirling a couple of odd-looking sticks – everyone else was carrying them, too – and leading the dancers, who had formed in a rough half-circle round her, facing the far mirrors, with every move. It was, in short, rather mesmerising. Harry found himself noticing odd things about her feet – the way they arched, almost impossibly, even when she was doing a simple thing like stepping forward. The way her chest was heaving with sweat as she leapt and twisted into stylistic (again, definitely Indian) poses, the way her neck was pink, but her face pale.

And then the music sped up, and the Indian words ceased, and male dancers were leaping onto the floor as the others, led by Gabrielle, spun in a kind of frantic, beautiful frenzy, and the whole thing had become a lot of muscled leaping from place to place, with Gabrielle in the centre, her pale hair escaping precariously from her bun as she danced imperiously with a male dancer. Harry watched as Sophie muttered things like "too much point, there" and "fuck, Jean leapt the wrong way again", utterly convinced that, with the right clothes, the spectacle (nothing else he could call it) would be dazzling.

Gabrielle finished with a toss of her nearly-loose hair, leg crooked into a position that simultaneously made him wince and caused a stir down below, and yet he couldn't help clapping with the rest of the dancers as the tired group began to fragment off into groups, muttering to themselves. Madame Gorgen – the forceful, dark-haired woman – had cornered Gabrielle and was talking excitedly to her, waving her arms as Gabrielle nodded again, and then – _finally_, she was walking over, tugging out her bun, evidently meaning to put it up again. Sophie grinned beside him and winked broadly at her, patting Harry on the waist (perilously close to his _bum_, he thought, slightly scandalised) and flouncing off somewhere else.

Gabrielle could only manage a tired-looking smile as she spotted him, shaking her head at some comment her opposite and brief partner made as she passed him by. But she was heading steadily for Harry, and he found himself thinking, foolishly, that that was enough.

_Since when did you care if she likes you?_ he asked himself irritably, trying to tone down the odd grin on his face – he was sure he looked stupid, but –

"I am so glad you could come," Gabrielle told him tiredly, rising up to give him a small kiss on the cheek that burned and did interestingly embarrassing things to his cock. _For Merlin's _sake_, Potter – not even spoken to her and you're already thinking of your cock_ –

"Told you I would," was all he seemed able to say, around the stupid grin that had taken over his face. Gabrielle smiled again, blushing a little – _at what?_ – as she gave his arm a quick squeeze that burned equally –

"I'll get my things," was all she said, but it seemed more than that, more than –

_God, I need help_, Harry remarked inwardly, finally finding himself able to shut down that grin. He managed to keep it off his face even as she sort of embarrassedly asked him if he could Dual-Apparate her back home, as she really, really needed a shower, and didn't want to make him wait while she did that here. Harry agreed so fast he wondered if he'd imagined the question, and then Gabrielle was nodding and smiling at her friends and pinking slightly as Sophie winked and said something in low French – sounded like, 'giving it another round' – and tugging burningly on his arm to show him somewhere they could safely disappear. They found such a place, a spotless alley beside the studio, where Harry first cast a mild Notice-Me-Not Charm, then wrapped his arms firmly around Gabby's soft, sweaty form (not even bothering to deceive himself that he was only doing it because of the Apparation), and visualising her bathroom in as much detail as possible.

The crushing sensation of Apparation overtook him, and then they were standing in her slightly messy bathroom, Harry breathing a little heavily. They stayed like that for a minute, very close to each other, Harry able to feel her tired breathing against his neck and chest, because it just felt –

"Right," Gabrielle said softly, squirming slightly against him. Harry let go of her as gently as possible, gulping as she refused to leave his arms, giving him a kiss that tasted of activity and warmth and was very, very – "I should get on with it," she said, breaking away, running a damp hand through her hair. Harry nodded, stepping back, unable to make himself leave as she stripped off the sweaty clothes, dumping them in a basket of other clothes he'd not noticed before, pinking slightly as she looked round at him. "Do you want to…" she gestured hopefully at the shower, and, five minutes later, Harry realised, as his mouth found hers again, that he'd possibly beaten his record for undressing for sex.

Well, he _hoped_ it would be –

"Get in, 'Arry," Gabrielle said lowly, not following, tired blue eyes roving his body as he blushed and hardened before her eyes, obeying her half-hearted mime that he should turn on the shower. "Could you – touch yourself…?" she asked slowly, hopefully, firing Harry's veins with lust and embarrassment as his hands eagerly obeyed her request. She didn't watch him long – ducking into the shower cubicle and pressing him against one of the walls in a hungry kiss that served to further excite him, hands roaming unashamedly over his arse. In what seemed like no time at all, she was shuddering against the wall as he thrust into her, the warm water spilling over them as they joined slowly together, again and again and again –

Her low, low moan pushed him to the limit, and soon he was limp inside her as she kissed him again, softly, his legs wobbling slightly with the intensity of it all.

"Right," Harry said hoarsely, sliding out of her, blushing fit to kill himself – if he wasn't so painfully oversensitive now, he'd be hard again, taking her like this, against the wall, as she moaned and _moaned_ – "You wanted a shower, didn't you?" Gabrielle snorted as she manoeuvred herself under the weak spray, washing absently between her legs.

"I also wanted you to fuck me, but I could not say zat at ze studio, no?" At his further blush, she smiled, turning up the shower spray. "You might want to get your wand – I do not theenk we did anything to prevent, well. Anything." Harry felt like his face was on fire – he'd been that horny, that inconsiderate, hadn't he – and duly called his wand to him, eliciting a half-admiring roll of the eyes from Gabrielle, who was now thoroughly rinsing her hair. After Harry said the requisite spell, she asked him if he could fetch her shampoo, which was, oddly, inside the cubicle with them. Bending over and feeling very, very silly, he did as she asked, only to have her pressing deliciously against him, hands snaking round to touch his cock. It felt almost painfully good to have her wet, warm hands on him, in his sensitised state, and by the time she got round to actually retrieving her shampoo from him, it had fallen twice, and Harry was impossibly half-hard, again.

"What was that for?" he demanded, shakily, turning round to stare at her pink nipples as she stroked shampoo through her hair.

"An incentive to wash my hair," she said diffidently, turning round with a pointed look. Harry felt the urge to pout hit him again, but then she was backing into him delightfully, pressing her firm buttocks against him enticingly, and before he knew what he was doing, he was carefully dragging fingers through her hair and massaging her scalp. An undignified groan escaped him as her hand found his cock again. "Keep going." The implicit promise that _she_ would if he did sped his hands, and soon he was rocking helplessly against her, and –

She disengaged briefly, eliciting another groan of despair from him, ducking her head under the spray to rinse it out. Harry, who had become nearly incoherent, reached for her arse and hips anyway, sliding fingers into her in a desperate effort to entice her back.

It worked, and fifteen minutes later, they were groaning against the shower wall again, and her hair smelt fucking fantastic, and Harry was so painfully close –

Another shameful groan escaped him, and he felt far too wobbly to stand upright under the hot spray, and found himself leaning sweatily against the wall as she kissed him again and again. She was very slow about it, very deliberate, very –

Dammit, he was too tired to think, so he wouldn't do it. Only kiss – only taste her lips and mouth and neck and revel in the water –

_Whhhrrring!_

"Shite," Harry could only say, reluctantly disentangling himself from Gabrielle's complaining warmth and dripping out of the bathroom, cursing the stupid – "Shi – right."

_FLOO CALL PIERRE OR DIE!_ His messager advised him in blocky, slightly childish letters. Harry groaned loudly without even thinking – _oh _no_, I _do_ have to meet with him this afternoon. Said something about a lead on the Lestranges, or_ –

"'Arry?" He shivered, almost pathetically. It really wasn't fair, her having such tones at her command – "Anytheenk wrong?"

"Well, I think I might have to leave soon." _That is, everything_.

"Are you sure? You 'ave appointment, or – "

"Something like that," Harry said, stuffing the messager roughly back into his coat-pocket, feeling rather resentful towards its sleek metal shell. _It_ hadn't any human feelings or desires. _It_ didn't feel the need to have a pleasantly warm body next to it for any amount of time. _It_ didn't feel bone tired standing and feeling silly in some stupid little hall playing at spies –

"It ees importante?"

"Irritatingly so," Harry said lowly, shuffling back into the bathroom to gaze longingly at Gabrielle's sleek, dripping towelled form. As she tended to her wet hair, the slightly damp towel slithered unhelpfully down to her waist, and he was only too happy to protect her – er – modesty, by lending a helping hand. And a long, wistful helping kiss, after that. "I'm Apparating to mine for a sec, to get my stuff, then – "

"Non, don't tell me," Gabrielle said softly, cutting him off. "You won't tell me ze truth, in any case, so it is bettaire to say nothing."

"What?" Harry stopped cold, feeling very –

"It is obviously not a normal work, what you 'ave," she continued, turning from him to her dressing table, "strange 'ours. And you, being who you are…eet strongly suggests somesing not quite…how shall I say eet…public." She shrugged as she sprayed out some foamy substance onto her hair and began to rub it in, even as Harry stumblingly helped himself to a strangely rich lotion as fast as he could. "Just – " she set down the can from which she'd extracted the foam, " – be here, zis evening, at – shall we say – nine?" Harry nodded eagerly, leaning over to kiss her cheek in an action that felt stunningly natural – far too natural for so soon, his mind noted suspiciously – before stumbling into his clothes and retrieving his wand.

The last thing he saw before he finally subjected himself to that crushing darkness, once more, was Gabrielle's oddly accepting nod. Permissive, somehow, he thought to himself as he frantically _Accio-ed_ everything he would need for the meeting with Pierre, shrinking various odd-looking implements and placing them as carefully as he could into the special, over-pocketed vest all spies that worked for the Department were given, occasionally cursing the irritating thing. Protocol stated that its contents had to be resized and dispersed each time he put it away, the process of which was everlastingly annoying, and everlastingly long.

Harry snorted to himself. Sometimes he wondered what bloody use all the protections and uselessly tiny vials would do if he met someone really intent on putting an end to him – something he'd not done for more than three or so years. _No_, he thought to himself, stripping off his shirt and slipping the vest on under it with the ease that came from practice, _they're all too busy wondering why their luck is bad enough that the Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World gets sent after them, poor sods_.

Not that many of the targets of the Department were capable of arousing any sympathy in Harry's breast, of course. He dealt with only the highest levels of criminals – the ones the Aurors could never quite understand, the ones that were _really_ loose in the head. Many of them had turned out to be former Death Eaters, but Harry, by now, was of the firm belief that one didn't have to kowtow to Voldemort or any other dark wizard to be Dark themselves.

All it takes, Harry thought, a little morosely, is willingness to hurt someone else, and then –

His hand tightened unnecessarily on his wand as he hid the vest with the complex spell he'd thought he'd never be able to learn, eyes hardening imperceptibly.

Then, you became someone – some_thing_ like the Lestrange brothers.

And then – Harry smiled, grimly – you got the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding world set on your trail. He caressed his wand for a moment, almost fondly, before mouthing the communication spell in the direction of one of the gadgets he'd dropped into his vest.

"Pierre? You'd better be there, you irritating piece of – "

"_Monsieur! Monsieur Bleu, what a lovely surprise_ – " Harry rolled his eyes, partly at his handler's irreverently patronising manner, which never failed to get on his nerves, and partly at the slight slur in the man's speech. Pierre occasionally indulged, he knew that – wasn't likely to forget it after running afoul of him during the Spanish mission in Pasajes an hour or so before judicious use of hangover potion was usually expected – but not usually at such an important time. Harry snorted to himself, suddenly remembering, with a wry grin, that _he_ was doing all the legwork this time around – Pierre could be sitting in some swanky apartment on the other side of town, shooing away beautiful, naked blondes from his bedside so he could finish 'eemportant business'… _"Monsieur? Are you listeneeng?"_

Harry started, nodding almost automatically before remembering Pierre couldn't see him. "I'm all ears, for crying out loud – get on with it."

"_Mon plaisir, Bleu. Les frères Lestranges sont vu dans un petit hôtel dans Verduron. L'adresse est…" _

Harry mouthed the street address of the hotel, thanked his partner, and abruptly severed the connection, frissons of adrenaline already running up and down his arms.

_Time_. He darted to the mirror in the bathroom and hastily altered his facial features with makeup than magic, his only concessions to his wand in this case being the temporary Colouring Charm and a few drops of judiciously applied engorgement potion to his jawline and lips. There – he still looked very English, and, with an added touch of an insipid expression he'd had to perfect, would also look harmless.

Activating the built-in Disillusionment Charm on the vest, Harry Apparated almost immediately after, ignoring the sensations as he planned what to do and how to go about it. He appeared on a street corner and ducked out of the way of a hurrying, slightly disheveled-looking businessman, heading for the shadows. A small pub was across the street from the hotel caught his eye, and, after rendering himself visible again, he conjured a large coat and pullover and fought into them as quickly as he could. Nerves fizzling as always, he crossed the street and headed into the pub, not yet knowing why his instinct was directing him inside, his shoulders settling easily into the disguise he'd use for the evening.

The door swung open before him, and, quite suddenly, he _knew_.

Harry paused momentarily on the threshold of the pub, ignoring the stench of alcohol as he scanned it surreptitiously. How he knew, he did not know, but what he knew was clear. He stepped inside, smiling nervously at the barmaid from a distance, heart thudding rapidly.

Rabastan Lestrange was in the building.

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_A/N: Just to clarify, what Pierre was saying just before Harry Apparated was more or less, "The Lestrange brothers were seen in a small hotel in Verduron. The address is…"_

_And worry not, the next chapter is already about halfway written. I'm finally settling into my writing groove this year, so all my stuff is weirdly on schedule. All the better for you guys, I guess..._

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	4. Chapter 4

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_A/N: The usual disclaimer applies, obviously. _

_In which Harry meets an old enemy in an unexpected way._

_Er, warnings? Bloodthirsty E.M. strikes again, is all I'm saying._

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**L'Affaire Chez Verduron**

Harry scanned the pub rapidly, outlining his options.

OPT1: Floo Pierre. Get backup and swarm the bastard. Or bastards, as it were.

He said hello to the disgruntled-looking female bartender in shy, nearly-fluent-but-with-an-English-accent-y French, and cheerily asked her to order for him, ignoring the fact that she'd probably sell him the most expensive drink in the pub.

OPT2: Lay low. Ascertain the positions of les _freres_. Follow them, perhaps, to see if where they went would uncover any leads.

«Here you are, sir,» the bartender said, something of a leer coming across her face as he blushed and took the beer (which actually smelled rather good) from her as if he were flustered.

He tried not to think of Gabrielle, as hard as that seemed to have become upon seeing that leer on the bartender's face. Harry sipped at his beer nervously, making shy conversation and flirting back. He didn't want this girl. Wouldn't have wanted her, if she was ten times as hot as Gabby, which he contentedly assumed was impossible.

He wanted to go home. To her flat. Even though the whole thing was just a –

_Back on track, Potter!_

OPT3: Lay low. Ascertain the positions of the brothers.

Harry gulped slightly, more in response to the unspoken remainder of his last 'option'.

_Kill them_.

Harry shivered at the feeling of anticipation that washed over him, keeping tight rein on his posture as he sipped nervously at his beer, again. That that was an option was moot, despite the restrictions his superiors had feebly tried to place on him. And he said 'feebly', because he'd done in Avery a year ago, and they'd done nothing except kick up a quiet fuss and give him a mandatory holiday for a month, three weeks of which he used to disappear into Muggle London and party harder than he'd ever done in his life, and sleep around faster than the same.

Harry tried not to grimace, and worried about the fact that he wanted to. It was very strange how any thought of sex he had now was laced heavily with thoughts of Gabrielle's cunt and the way she smelled, and he'd have to explore that thought later, when he wasn't trying not to vibrate with joy at the possibility of killing the Lestrange brothers in cold blood.

Only it would be hot, maybe splashing horribly on his face, mocking the surprised expression he favoured on undercover missions like these as he pretended horror and sickness and sympathy for his thrashing, dying victim if he was on the scene, but Harry didn't quite want to think of it that way, because it was wrong.

It didn't feel wrong, and that was probably wrong too.

_And you probably should be scanning the pub instead of brooding about blood, you idiot_, he told himself.

So he gave the bartender a last, nervous smile, then took up his drink and began to slowly but surely cover the pub, drifting over to the telly and the anxious Frenchmen clustered around it with a feigned look of interest in the football match on it on his face. He sat down without thinking, positioning himself so he'd be facing the entrance and able to watch it for any newcomers, then found, to his surprise, that the barstool next to his was occupied by a slightly nervous, very English-looking man wearing a fashionably tatty, very English-looking sweater.

Harry smiled and decided for a tentative hello in the man's direction, and leaned over to speak to him.

"Hi. Are you English, by any chance?"

The man was a little startled, but looked up from his beer calmly enough, and that, that was enough. Harry fought back a grin of glee.

It was one of them, he just knew it.

"Yeah," the man next to him said, with a smooth accent, one obviously belonging to the not-quite-upper-class that seemed to swarm France these days.

"Oh thank God," Harry enthused, shifting his beer in an outward show of fake nerves, "Sometimes I never think I'll find anyone to talk to without thinking about it first, you know?"

"I suppose so," Lestrange answered, with a small, quiet smile. "Where are you from, then?"

"Sussex," Harry said, calmly, knocking back some of his beer with giddy abandon. He'd found them, he really had. Against all odds – "God but I miss it – "

"You don't sound like it," Lestrange answered, his smile looking slightly off. "If I didn't know better, I would've thought you were all French, with that accent." Harry waved the slightly suspicious objection off airily, easily projecting an air of relief and comfort.

"I get it from my mum – always good at languages, she was. Makes sense that I'm good at them too – "

"Really." Harry tried not to notice the slight frost in the man's tone as he knocked back another gulp of the (really very good) beer. "How fortunate for you. I wonder how it must have seemed to your teachers, your facility for languages. They must have called it almost unnatural." Lestrange smiled, coldly, and Harry knew he was caught. The murmur of the football fans nearby began to rise, almost in time with the slight increase of his hearbeat, and Harry forced himself to relax further into the chair, and project confidence instead of anger.

Which he had plenty of, in the face of this bastard. Looking at him again, now, Harry could almost see that regal, cruel tilt, that handsome edge under the nondescript eyes and skin, and it infuriated him, because it meant Lestrange was consciously toning down his concealing charms to spite Harry. Rodolphus had been in charge of the whole disastrous attack on Bill and Fleur's wedding, had been in charge of the mass action that had turned the dancing into weeping, the sedate, commonplace enjoyment into terror. Had been in charge of that final, awful attack, and had probably been in charge of creating the poor, twisted Veelas that had fought alongside the Death Eaters on that day. _Why_, Harry found himself thinking, anger starting to sweep a slightly pink haze over his vision, _he probably tortured people like Gabby, probably raped them_ –

_That's enough_, he ordered himself, setting down the drink, ignoring the way his skin had started to heat, and the way his hands had started to shake.

"Well, then we're two of a kind, aren't we, Rodolphus?" The man sneered slightly, whatever charm he was using seeming to solidify his features back into bored, listless English toff, and Harry could nearly not restrain the movement of his hand to his wand, could not even _think_ past the idea of Gabrielle being hurt by this monster, this monster who would soon be dead, deader than Voldemort, if Harry had to fling him down to the very centre of the earth to accomplish that.

There were spells for that, even though he'd never tried them –

Harry reached for his wand, and tried to contain the shock on his face as his fingers discreetly combed an empty pocket. The shock and the smirk on Rodolphus' face helped to centre him a little, and he forcibly calmed down, taking another sip of his beer.

He couldn't afford another slip now, the way this encounter was careening out of control –

"You really are brave, continuing to drink that," Rodolphus said conversationally, affecting to glance up at the telly nearby before shaking his head. "The hysteria that's always surrounded your abilities has never failed to amuse me – "

Harry snorted, suddenly blindingly angry again. "What do you know of magic, Rodolphus? It repels you, resists your efforts to tame and control it. Of course you wouldn't understand – do you think I have to beg the magic to conform to my will?" Harry smiled, letting it become as dangerous as he really wanted. "Let me tell you something – magic loves me. It's almost frightening, sometimes, how much I can do. Now, be honest." He leant forward slightly, relishing the slight alarm in Rodolphus' eyes. "Do you really think I wouldn't know if you'd poisoned my drink?"

"I knew someone from the Organisation was after me, you know," Rodolphus said, ignoring Harry's question outright, taking a forcedly calm sip of his drink. "I wondered who they would send, too. Can't say I expected them to send a useless little half-blood to try to bring me in – "

"Enough talk." Harry rose suddenly, knocking over his barstool and drink in the process, and, an angry, confused sort of look now properly in place, seized Rodolphus by the neck and shoved him down to the floor. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Harry swung and hit, relishing the slight crack of bone under his fist as it connected solidly with Rodolphus' jawline. Another painful punch produced a louder, more satisfying crack that had Rodolphus gasping raggedly around his broken jaw, unable to verbalise any last minute insults – or, more importantly, any of the really lethal curses that needed verbalisation.

Harry kicked out viciously at him, adrenaline flooding his system beautifully as Rodolphus curled under his assault. He ignored the shouts of alarm going on around him, rage gaining control of his actions, his magic lending them an accuracy and preciseness that Rodolphus groaned under again and again.

"Thought I'd be useless without my wand, did you?" Harry half-shouted, the slight drunken slur he was forced to affect to avoid suspicion not masking his outright. "Just because you are – " he ground his heel into Rodolphus' groping, desperate wand hand, relishing the sounds of stressing, breaking bones and tearing skin – " – doesn't mean I am – "

"_Monsieur _– "

"_Arrêtez, arrêtez!"_

"_Appelez la police _– "

"_Aidez-le, arrêtez-le!"_

The pink haze suddenly lifted from Harry's mind as strident French hands and French words were thrown at him, as people tore him away from Rodolphus' now heavily bleeding form, and he did not resist, knowing the crowd in here were definitely now on Rodolphus' side, and –

"_You BASTARD_ – "

Harry ducked instinctively, ignoring the wrenching pain in his shoulder as his sharp downward motion dragged his arm out of the grip of the person holding him, and his heart stopped cold, because the sizzle of magic was definitely there in the air now, and the person that had shouted –

"_Dividere agmen!_"

– was Rabastan Lestrange. Harry curled and ducked out of the way as the clamouring Muggles surrounding him were peeled back by the force of the wild-eyed bastard's spell, smashing backwards into tables and surfaces as Rabastan stared at the twitching, crumpled form of his brother on the floor just before them. Harry didn't even bother watching him – what he needed now was his wand, and Merlin but he'd been a fool for not getting it back from Rodolphus while he could, and now –

"You _bastard_…"

– he would pay for his carelessness. The wild light in Rabastan's eyes suggested nothing but a healthy round of curses Harry hadn't been put under for years, and with nothing but a vestful of shrunken brooms, healing potions and one or two stupid little comms devices that mightn't even work here –

_Focus, for fuck's sake!_

"Same to you, Rab," Harry said back, as softly as he could, knowing it would infuriate him. Knowing the resulting shouts and carrying-on would buy him some time, and erase just enough of Rabastan's cautious, plotting thoughts and replace them with something like the fury he'd been bested by just minutes ago. "You were always last on the scene – "

"If he dies, you little – "

"Potter," Harry said, mockingly. "Harry, to be precise. Although I don't think there are any Potters left apart from me, are there? Shocking."

"You – "

"With any luck, that _Dividere_ you cast will have snapped his spine," Harry said viciously, gathering his strength for an attempt to wandlessly _Accio_ his wand. It was pretty much the only chance he had of surviving this thing with his sanity and life intact – "Not that it'll do him any real damage. He's just kicking, it'll be over soon – "

"You murdering halfblood swine!"

"Careful there, Rab. Technically, there's been more than one of those – I think you still bear the traces of his Mark – "

"_Fomentio!"_ Rabastan hissed, and the battle had really, truly began. Harry dived hard out of the way of the Blood-boiling curse, dread and anticipation prickling sharply at him as he let the magic flow out of him, begging, seeking –

A familiar, tingling length slapped into his hand, and Harry was up and running, _finally_. He needed to take this fight out of here, before it hurt the shouting, panicking patrons still hiding behind tables and counters within the pub –

_"Flaminis!"_ The Blasting Curse rolled easily enough off his painful arm, taking Rabastan a little by surprise as it whipped him away from his bleeding, groaning brother, slamming him into the tables nearby, disorientating him splendidly, just like Harry needed – "_Mobilicorpus!"_ Harry snarled, ignoring the angry moaning as he roughly levitated Rabastan out of the pub door, smashing him into the lintel on purpose as he lifted the spell, smiling inwardly at the way Rabastan's gathered momentum made him continue to fly across the street into the remnants of terrified traffic. Harry followed sharply, digging out and enlarging almost immediately the device he needed – "Pierre! Backup needed, situation 516, it's getting out of hand down here – "

"He won't answer you, Harry," Rabastan snarled joyously, twisting haphazardly into a sitting position. "How's it feel with no fools guarding your back now, Potter?"

"Jesus Christ," Harry breathed, wand at the ready, the correct spell already forming in his mind as disbelief soared through him, because it meant this was a trap, and he had no idea how – "_Dispersio vexillum!_" he shouted, keeping an eye firmly on Rabastan as he chuckled evilly, producing his wand with that quaint flourish Harry still remembered from the War, from the destruction at Port –

«Listen, sirs! We require you to cease fighting immediately!»

The small, fiery circle Harry had sent into the air writhed above them, brightening as Harry put as much effort as he could into it, wondering, hoping someone else had at least known of this mission –

"Anything the matter, Potter?" Rabastan challenged lowly, ignoring the increased shouting around them. "Scared?"

Harry quashed the urge to say 'never', knowing it would waste his time. "_Converbero!"_ And the battle had begun again. Harry whirled around within the shouting circle of concerned but not-quite-concerned-enough French police, lashing out at Rabastan's steadily weakening body with everything in him, tightly channelling the sleeping rage within into the most terrible spells he knew. He struck out at every part of his enemy's body without regard, just as Rabastan was doing in return, leavening the mixture of confusion-producing and damaging Dark spells with one of his favourites – the cutting curse Snape had once informed him that he'd turned into a purely lethal weapon: _Sectumsempra_.

"There's no way out, you know," Harry laughed at him, the impending victory heating his own blood as he cast it once again, serrating the rigid Muggle road beneath a desperate Rabastan as blood continued to stain his robes, torn gaps decorated with bleeding gashes decorating his entire body. "You'll die, just like your brother's dying, right now – "

The crack of Apparition interrupted Harry's low, gloating speech like little thunderclaps in and around him as people dressed in nondescript Muggle clothes burst into action around him, beating back the crowd, casting up a heavy shield that enclosed the area within the tight circle surrounding the combatants and generally behaving like the backup Harry had so earnestly sent for. And was now equally earnestly regretting, because he wouldn't be able to kill Rabastan right in front of them, as that would get him into more trouble –

"_Crucio!"_ The desperate scream of Rabastan's spell caressed Harry's right arm for a moment, a hideously familiar pain latching on and twisting his wand out of his writhing arm even as Harry muttered another cutting curse in reply, and for a few instants, all Harry could feel was that pain travelling up into his entire body, filling his thoughts with fear and anger and random thoughts of just how good the Death Eaters had gotten at graduating Cruciatus Curses, and then –

A harsh, serrated _pop_ sounded ominously nearby as the pain of the _Crucio_ abruptly ceased, and when Harry opened his eyes, there was no Rabastan in sight, and far too many bloody Organisation operatives in his stead.

"We found Pierre just after your _Dispersio_," one of them started saying from immediately above him (_how did I get to lying on the floor like a – okay, that's obvious_), but Harry was far too angry to listen.

"Do you think you could have Apparated _outside_ the bloody duelling ring we had going, you fucking idiot? Did you even read the files of the Lestranges, or – "

"We set up Anti-Apparition – " came the nervous answer, but Harry was too angry and too keyed up to listen to the familiar hesitation in the harried supporting agent's voice. God, one minute, _one minute more_, and he'd have had the bastard –

And now, instead, there was just a circle of whirling Agents gently Obliviating here and there, separating out the Muggle police from the circle and getting them done first so they could sort out some of the crowd themselves. Just blood, and torn bits of the bastard's robes and Harry's robes and _nothing_. Rage filled Harry's throat like a vicious bile – all his work for _nothing_ –

"There is _a way around them!_ The Lestranges practically _created_ the way for getting round Apparition-specific wards, you bloody fools! And I had him, _I had him_ – "

"He had you at the end, Agent Potter," a familiar, foreboding voice said from behind. Harry whipped around, his anger diminishing somewhat as he came face to face with his official Head of Department, Julius Maronin, who was somehow managing to look like the most furious wizard he'd seen in days even in a shabby grey coat and matching shapeless hat. "Have you forgotten all basic training? Why didn't you verify with the Head Office before setting out, you stupid little blighter?"

"Because you," Harry said, trying hard to bring his insolent tone under control, "told me to stay in contact with Pierre and _only_ Pierre, mission-wise. Or do you not remember?"

"Nevertheless, you had no business trying to take on both of those bastards at the same time – " Harry could not stop himself bristling, despite the dread seeping into his limbs now, dread that he'd be taken off the case, just because – and it didn't make _sense!_ He was one of their best agents, he knew it –

"As you well know, I am _quite_ capable of handling the Lestrange brothers on any day – "

" – and your orders were to _apprehend_, not bludgeon to bits!" Maronin was now firmly in his face, in full screaming-lecture mode. Harry turned his face carefully out of reach of that angry, slightly smelly breath, trying to keep a handle on his own overgrown, mutating temper, which had probably gotten him into this mess in the first place.

"Did anyone really think I'd follow those orders? You know my history, sir – "

"And you said you would _disregard it_ – " Guilt blossomed briefly in Harry's mind, but he swiftly shunted it aside. Anyone who knew him at all had to have known he'd been pretending –

"And you expected me to say no? You know me, Monsieur Maronin. I wouldn't have dreamt of sending myself to apprehend the Lestranges on my best of days. I assumed I had free rein – "

"Which is why you are officially on leave from this day till the first of February, Potter." Harry stared, but knew better than to argue, recognising the all-too-obvious cadence of one of the Organisation's efforts at punishing him for misbehaving. Besides, if he surmised correctly, the period between those dates, was about a month and a half, which would come in handy with reinforcing his cover as a travelling security consultant with his friends. Of course, Harry suddenly realised, it was also at least twice the duration of leave they'd sent him on after Avery, and that couldn't be anything but significant – "Yes, that is intended to be double the penalty for that hideous miscalculation with Avery, as well as an extra two weeks of mandatory training for letting that stupid bastard go after learning you're a part of us. I do not care what you think, Mr. Potter, but we are not in the habit of hiring and sustaining loose cannons. If you know in good conscience that you cannot appropriately fulfil a mission because of your history, then it is your duty as an Agent of ours to refuse it. Is that understood?"

"Yes and no, sir," Harry said, shock starting to pulse through him at the odd, blaming undertone of the whole speech. "You're forgetting," he continued angrily, "that you were the ones that offered me this position at all. If you don't like how I deal with things, then you'd better find a replacement, and fast – " Maronin nearly snarled in frustration, his very posture screaming the situation of the still fragmented nature of the search for the remaining former affiliates of Tom. He sighed and shifted weight from one leg to another, every movement projecting impatience and an odd neediness Harry had never quite seen with him before.

"We need you on Lestrange's trail, Potter," Maronin said, lowly, voice reluctant. Harry nodded despite his chafing instinct. Something was definitely going on, but it didn't take away from that salient fact.

"And I don't argue with that. What you need to consider is whether _apprehending_ his dead body is any use to you, versus actually torturing whatever information you need out of him after he's killed off another of the Agents." Harry lowered his voice slightly, ignoring the disapproving look on Maronin's face – what he was about to say was practically commonplace knowledge among the agents, and there was simply no point trying to hide anything – "He's working with someone inside the Organisation – you know that just as well as I do, just as you know that killing him is the only option." Harry let his voice return to normal levels, still ignoring the glare he was now receiving from his boss. "I assume my forced leave begins now, Paul?"

"Agent Maronin, Potter," was the stern reply. "And yes, Potter, it does. Where do you intend to go to ground?"

"Surely you can find that out on your own, Agent Maronin? I'm hardly about to give up my location to the departmental head of an organisation whose integrity of information is compromised, am I?" Maronin looked vaguely displeased, but nodded in acceptance all the same as Harry continued. "I'll be back in Cannes in two and a half months, and that's all I'll say."

"Cannes, eh?" Harry tried not to stiffen at the oddly knowing look Maronin gave him. They'd worked together for well over a year, and Paul knew his habits and subtle signals as well as Harry knew his – he'd know not to push, thankfully. "Well. Walters! Get Mr. Potter cleared to leave the scene immediately. I suppose," he said, turning snidely to Harry in a way that belied the very slight glimmer of concern and wry amusement in his eyes, "that your Muggle injuries are treatable at a Muggle hospital…?"

Harry nodded as insultingly as possible before allowing Walters to lead him off to the tiny temporary Medic tent, seething at the whole thing. Just one minute later, and he'd have had Rabastan writhing on the floor and _dying…_ Harry sighed. Sometimes he really hated working with the Organisation.

"Cannes on February the first, Potter. Don't make me come looking for you, do you understand? Walters, I'll just be off. Send the abbreviated report to me…" Harry grinned as the imperious tone of his boss trailed off into the distance, knowing the man had wandered outside the undoubtedly Silenced barrier. Then again, it meant he got to work with complex, wry individuals like Meronin instead of blind, prejudiced, fawning and/or simpering Ministry officials, so he supposed it had its good moments.

This, of course, was definitely not one of them. Harry sighed, ignoring the concerned, envious looks he got from the harried healer that had just finished flooding him with potions to counteract nerve damage and other sundry unappetising conditions he might end up with from the backlash of Rabastan's other spells, some of which he hadn't even realised had hit him at the time.

"You're never alert to damage in a duel, Potter," he remembered being shouted at him exasperatedly from many, many tutors. "It'll hurt you – it'll hinder you – "

Harry sighed again. Right now, he couldn't help going over all the wrong things he'd done in that duel, all the foolish steps he'd taken, all the mistakes he'd made. What had made him so angry? So obviously unheeding his training, his common sense –

And then he remembered. _Gabrielle_. The mention, the thought of that horribly botched wedding of Fleur's, the tears, the battle long after – Harry stiffened in shock as he felt anger, that same anger, boiling murderously within despite the fact that Rodolphus was dead or nearing it inside that pub, despite the fact that Rabastan was heavily injured and probably panicked and liable to be caught. He ignored the healer's strident questions about whether he was feeling all right and made his way to the tiny secured area outside of the Apparition boundary, anger and worry colliding severely within him.

He had a problem, he really did. Gabrielle's wellbeing seemed to flood his senses and overwhelm his thoughts as he began to Apparate in short hops, knowing to keep the stress to a minimum, and he wasn't surprised to find himself eventually nearing her area. Confusion and longing added themselves to the painful mix, and Harry suddenly decided it would be okay to Apparate there, that it would be fine. Really. He sneaked a quick look at his watch as he ducked inside the shabby lobby of her apartment building. It was just going half nine or so –

_Well, I'm late already_, he reasoned stubbornly. _So she'll be expecting me_ –

_Pop_. Harry stumbled back against her door, eyes widening as he surveyed the carnage. The mess – it was – there was blood in places, he could smell it –

Harry took a deep breath, and gulped in another. He would be calm. He would go home, clean himself – _no, don't go into her room_ – up. Take the Organisation-issued vest off, maybe burn its useless bloody contents. Then he'd take up his wand, come back, and start from here.

And by God, when he found her – when he found who had taken her –

Harry Apparated suddenly, violently, the crushing feeling twisting satisfactorily at his limbs as focused, primal anger ran through them. He'd rip the person limb from limb.

_Slowly_.

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_A/N: Wow, settling the ghosts of this chapter gives me a great feeling. (wipes forehead) Well, that's another round of updating gone by, I believe. Hope you didn't mind just how bloodthirsty this chapter was… Well, any errors in this chapter are solely due to my overindulgence of playing the Sims 2 Open for Business. Oh, and the sort-of-stalemate I've had with this story for a bit. Do report any you see...cheers, E. M.  
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